


Wyrmguard

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affection, M/M, Pining, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snektember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26404747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale waits for Crowley in the woods.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 437





	Wyrmguard

**Author's Note:**

> For the Snektember prompt 'Very big, or very small.'

The campfire is unnecessary. Aziraphale is more than capable of providing his own light and warmth for the night, and there's no one around for miles, so no chance of a human straying in and thinking it strange he was sitting in the woods under a miracled heavenly light. He's made that mistake before, much to Crowley's amusement.

But there's something to be said for simple comforts. The way the flames warm the air, the crackle of burning wood, the way orange shadows play on the trees. He's still not used to the constant dampness in the air, the way it makes the fur on his cape sag over the ridiculously wide shoulders. There'll be a fog by morning, and rain by lunchtime, so the weather is here to stay. The campfire makes the place feel inhabited, makes the dark gloominess of it a bit less lonely.

That and he suspects Crowley will find the fire agreeable in these temperatures. Armour has a tendency to chill very quickly in this part of the world. The demon is far too proud to accept the offer of a cloak, and it's even less likely if he believes it to be an apology. Aziraphale had been dreadfully rude the last time they'd spoken. It had been ages since they'd seen each other, and Crowley hadn't even pushed, he'd seemed equally as disgruntled about the weather, and the tediousness of it all. It was Crowley's job to try and tempt people, his natural inclination even, some of it was to be expected, Aziraphale had been perfectly aware of that. But he'd let his own frustration spill over and he'd made a few assumptions, said some things that were perhaps a bit unkind - not very angelic of him at all. 

Speaking of Crowley -

"I know you're there, do stop sulking and come out."

There's the dragging sound of heavy weight across dirt and stones, the snap of sticks breaking as they're crushed to the ground. And then a diamond-shaped head rises from a patch of reeds that stretch down into the darkened pond to Aziraphale's left. A large serpentine body skirts the wide expanse of water, the considerable length of it slowly drawing into view.

"I was not _sulking_ ," Crowley hisses, spending a moment pulling his wide loops of scale and muscle into a messy pile on the other side of the fire, which he dwarfs in size. "I was waiting to see if you were lying in wait for me. Sharpening your wits to maybe throw a few more insults at me, spurn a few more of my very sensible suggestions."

Aziraphale is not entirely surprised by Crowley's defensive, wounded tone, or by the way the demon immediately slots himself into the space across from him, as if he belongs there. 

"Crowley -"

"It's fine, deserved it I suppose." There's a disgruntled sort of vibration, and the thick, scaled coils contract as Crowley twists and stretches himself to take advantage of the fire's heat, while making it look like a dramatic display of irritation. The long stretch of him is lit from below by the flames, and he'd certainly look very majestic and threatening by human standards. But there's an air of petulance to his hissing that Aziraphale is more than familiar with. It's not always easy to tell what Crowley is going to take personally, what he's going to be offended or hurt by. 

But this time the fault wasn't his.

"I am sorry for last time." Aziraphale measures the words out carefully, accepts responsibility. "I was terribly short with you, and you didn't deserve it. It had just been a few too many miserable weeks of trudging through the damp, and the cold, and you were the last person I expected to see. I was harsher than I should have been."

Crowley's giant snake face seems to be frowning but he's not certain. The demon brings this part of himself out so rarely, and Aziraphale can't help but feel it's because Crowley doesn't want him to learn its tells. To be able to pick up the serpentine nuances he doesn't seem able to hide.

"I didn't think we parted on bad terms," Crowley says, almost tentatively, as if he's not sure if he should remind him.

No, they hadn't. They'd shared wine on a Greek dock, feet in the water. Crowley had done a very funny impression of a date merchant and Aziraphale hadn't been able to stop laughing until Crowley stuck a date between his teeth, and told him that amusement looked good on him, then he'd pressed his warm, sticky mouth to Aziraphale's.

They'd watched humans kiss a thousand times. But Aziraphale had never - he'd wondered if Crowley had, if there'd been a human, or a demon, that he'd kissed first. 

Aziraphale had put a stop to it, as he should, he'd laid a hand on the demon's chest and gently, so very gently, pressed him back. Because they couldn't, of course they couldn't. 

Crowley had agreed, stood to fetch them another bottle of wine and explained the rules of a new dice game that had just been invented in the North. It had sounded delightfully boisterous, and they'd tried their best to play but they'd both been far too drunk at that point.

"No," Aziraphale agrees, thinking of the game, and of the way Crowley had looked so confused and frustrated when two of the dice wouldn't stay in the cup, eyes honey-yellow over his crooked glasses, face flushed with wine. He thinks of that and nothing else. "No, of course we didn't. I was simply in a terrible mood for company."

Crowley doesn't say anything else, pulling his body a little closer to the fire until the light draws patterns on his red and black scales.

"I've been sent out here to investigate reports of a great beast in the forest," Aziraphale tells him. "A menacing thing by all accounts. I don't suppose you know anything about that?" He eyes Crowley sideways and the way the large head weaves slowly back and forth is clearly offended.

"Because naturally you think I'm to blame."

Aziraphale looks at Crowley's very obvious giant serpent form. He says nothing.

"Could be a coincidence," Crowley protests. "I could have just felt like it."

"You felt like being a cold-blooded serpent this close to Winter in England?" Aziraphale had seen Crowley drag his clothes tighter around him when the wind picked up, he'd seen him scowl and twitch his way through long nights beside the sea, and the morning rain always left him hunched and miserable.

Crowley's tongue flicks out, then pulls back in. As if he doesn't want to admit that Aziraphale has a point.

"Maybe," he says eventually, reluctantly.

"Quite a few people have gone missing in the area." Aziraphale chooses not to make that a question. "Livestock too."

"I ate _one_ sheep," Crowley grumbles. "And only because it startled me. You know I don't eat much as a rule. It takes too long to digest, and it makes me sleepy. Not in my best interests to sleep when I'm a snake. You know that."

Aziraphale sighs, he has to admit Crowley's right, and much as he should probably protest and accuse the demon of lying - well, he knows better.

"It must be cold out here," he says instead, a much more gentle push. "Why would you stay?"

Crowley's long tail slides slowly through the dirt for a moment, before he pulls himself around the fire to settle next to him, his large head tipping down to fix both eyes on Aziraphale.

"This way through the forest tends to be used by people fleeing a bad situation. Those people who might face unfortunate consequences for the choices they make." Crowley's mouth opens enough that Aziraphale can see where his fangs are folded back into his upper jaw. "I consider it aiding in the escape of criminals and fallen women. So they can, y'know, spread their blasphemous ideas, flout authority. Proper demonic work."

"And the ones who aren't fleeing an unfortunate situation?" Aziraphale asks curiously. "Those who might be pursuing them instead?"

Crowley's tongue flutters briefly through the flames of the fire.

"They tend to end up running _back_ to the town, trailing the scent of fear and piss, and talking about monsters," he says flatly. "Can't think why."

Aziraphale sets the helmet he'd been holding down on the floor, and Crowley takes that perfectly casual movement as an invitation, very presumptuous of him. He sinks down until he can lay his large, heavy snout in Aziraphale's lap. The demon's scales are unpleasantly cold. So he supposes it's his angelic duty to lay warm hands under his jaw, and to pull them slowly along the smooth space between his eyes.

"You are most fiendish indeed." Aziraphale doesn't bother to give that the air of disapproval he normally would. It's soft enough that it might even be a compliment.

"I am, aren't I," Crowley hums, drawing the rest of his body in tightly until he can loop around the angel's warmth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Wyrmguard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097216) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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